The Wall
by Dream Writer 4 Life
Summary: Vaughn and Sydney share a moment at the warehouse involving playing cards and a few of Vaughn’s poems. Then tragedy strikes. A Dream Writer Experience.
1. Chapter One

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Title: The Wall

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Author: Dream Writer 4 Life

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Rating: PG-13 for language and themes

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Genre: Romance/Drama/Angst with a twinge of tragedy

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Archived: FanFiction.Net, SD-1, and Cover Me. Anywhere else, ask and you shall receive!

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Spoilers/Timeline: AU. No spoilers.

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'Shippers' Paradise: S/V all the way

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Summary: Vaughn and Sydney share a moment at the warehouse involving playing cards and a few of Vaughn's poems. NOT PURE FLUFF! There will be a point. A Dream Writer Experience.

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Disclaimer: I own nothing. Period. End of story. Wait! No it's not! Keep reading!

The Wall

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Chapter One

"Hello?"

"9-1-1?"

"Um, no. Wrong number." Francie set the phone back in the cradle with an incredulous look. Sydney glanced up from the book she was pretending to read. In actuality, her mind was somewhere else, slipping and sliding around turns and disregarding stop signs and lights until it reached its final dark, dreary, yet wonderfully alive destination. Her best friend's voice had snapped her reverie like a pencil tip.

"Who was it? Another call for Joey's Pizza?" Syd tensed for a moment: her voice had risen with hope, almost imperceptibly, but there was the chance of Francie taking notice. Agent Bristow had been tensing for this reason more often lately, ever since—

"No. Someone for the police. Honestly, who dials a wrong number when calling the cops? 9-1-1 isn't exactly that hard to remember."

__

'The signal.' Sydney fumbled her book while reaching for a marker to keep her place. Her hands practically vibrated with furore and she struggled to repress a delectable smile from alighting upon her face. "Maybe they hit the wrong button on the speed dial." Without giving her friend time to find the hole and shoot down her explanation she added, "Well, I am sufficiently bored. I think I'm gonna go to the gym then grab a bite to eat. I'll be back in a few hours. Don't wait up!" Sydney was out the door before Francie had a chance to even open her mouth.

She remembered nothing of the journey; the terminus engulfed her entire consciousness. Her brain snapped back to reality as the tired, dilapidated building sped into view, and she had to make a conscious effort to drive around the block in circles and park about half a mile away so as to shake off any possible followers. She could have quite possibly set the eight-hundred-metre world record that night. Upon reaching the back door, she paused before entering; her breathing was normal, but a slight veil of perspiration had broken out on the back of her neck. She wiped it off with the hem of her shirt: Syd wanted to appear as…normal…as possible.

There he was. Sitting on a crate, drumming his fingers absently upon the dead wood as if playing and instrument that wasn't really there. She had to stop in her tracks: the run hadn't whisked away her breath but he had. An unwillful smile laced across her lips and she paused more than she had meant to. This allowed him time to close the gap between them, sneak up on Syd's face without her even batting an eye.

"Syd? Is that you?" Vaughn had stationed himself at the gate of the chain-link fence, leaning against the pole for support, peering into the dimly lit recesses of the warehouse. He smiled that bashful smile when he saw her, back-lit by one of the overhead lights; looking up at her under his eyebrows, lifting only one corner of his mouth but somehow showing most of his perfect teeth. She could stare at it all day and was probably planning to until his husky whisper reached her ears. "Are you coming, or am I going to have to carry you over here?" The gate opened wider, and she strolled through on legs of jelly.

She had to make a conscious effort to gather her wits before she looked back at his bottomless eyes; if she turned before, she would drown in them, never reaching the surface no matter how hard she swam. The Feeling would have taken over every body system (it was so overwhelming that, yes, she did think of it with capital letters). Every time she saw him "off the clock," The Feeling would sneak up on her and threaten to ruin her carefully constructed composure. See, The Feeling was in a class by itself: it made her heart surge with adrenaline unlike any mission ever had and made her want to scream or do flips or run twenty-six miles. This time, though, she successfully fought down the urge to create an impromptu dance routine and sat down on the crate previously occupied by Vaughn. A comfortable silence settled around the two as he strutted mutely before her, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his suit pants.

"I think we should changed the signal," Sydney suddenly commented. "Francie was really weirded out when _someone_ asked for 9-1-1. Well, I guess it didn't help that I made up a really lame excuse."

Vaughn laughed shortly and looked down at his dress shoes in shame. "I know. I felt really stupid just saying it." He chuckled again, digging his toe into a crack in the concrete. "What were we on when we came up with that?"

"Love," Sydney answered simply. Their eyes locked, and she was gone, catapulted over the blurry line separating dreams and reality.

He didn't notice; on the inside she may have been melting in ecstasy, but she was calm and collected on the outside. But Vaughn knew how to press her buttons…and he planned to. Nervously glancing to one remote corner of the warehouse, he let out a breath that he didn't know he was holding: everything was as he left it. "Yeah, love is a powerful drug. Almost as powerful as adrenaline." _'Suave, Vaughn. Really suave. And witty. She's fallin' head over heels now.'_ He could feel the conversation starting to wane and he became anxious; this wasn't the way it was supposed to go. Sweeping her off her feet like he had a few years ago…yeah, now _that_ sounded like his plan.

"So…" Sydney trailed off, kicking her feet softly against the crate. She knew why he had called her at that specific time on that specific day, but she wanted to draw it out of him as slowly as he would allow. She loved to watch him squirm when it came to their relationship. "I went grocery shopping with Francie yesterday and you know what I discovered? Pumpernickel has got to be one of the funniest words on the planet! I mean, besides _yaourt_—"

"Sydney," Michael interrupted her, demanding her gaze by his tone alone. She smiled sheepishly as she realized that he had caught on to her game. He averted his eyes and continued to pace, tugging on his earlobe akin to how he did when he was nervous.

"What? I'm just trying to make normal conversation! It's not like you're doing anything to help the situation. At least I'm making a commendable effort, thank you very much."

"Sydney, stop talking," Vaughn commanded slowly. Her smile spread wider, if possible, and she suppressed a giggle as her limbs itched to wrap themselves around his neck and never let go. He was taking this so seriously! He always took _them_ so seriously, and she didn't mind that much, but this was…this was…**_today_**.

"Yes, Vaughn? Do you have something to say?" She chided, rising and circling him with sharp, quick footsteps. Her eyes were playful and so was the hand that was trailing down his chest. "Well, spit it out. You know, I told Francie I'd be back in a few hours, so you better start trying now."

Obviously, she knew how to push his buttons, too. Catching her arm, he brought it to his lips and planted a lingering kiss upon her middle knuckle. "Sydney, stop talking," He repeated, so low she almost didn't hear him. That familiar sensation panned out from the place of contact, almost making her entire hand go numb. He spun her in a pirouette and turned her into his awaiting arms. _They fit; they always fit._ Every time they touched or hugged, and he felt the way her peaks filled his valleys, he was left speechless. It was amazing, astounding, surreal…in a word, perfect. "If you would be quiet for just a moment—"

"Oh, what's the point of being quiet?"

"—I could show you something." This shut her up; well, this coupled with a look that whisked away her breath, her voice, and her heart. She could only nod over her right shoulder. "That's better." Vaughn smiled despite himself; so much for keeping his feelings in check. She probably could read the entire plan from one look into his eyes: or maybe he had accidentally written it across his forehead in case he forgot. He was so giddy that had he been watching himself on TV, he would be rolling on the floor laughing and cursing the feminine side his mother had imposed on him.

Vaughn released her from his arms and took her by the shoulders, bringing her close to him. That was a mistake: the fact that he couldn't keep his hands (or lips) to himself when she was less than six inches from him had escaped him for the moment. Sydney knew this; she closed her eyes and tilted her head upwards, waiting for his soft lips to crash against her own like they had so many times before. But it never happened. In fact, she felt the warmth of his hands leave her body and his hot breath was no longer felt on her cheek. She groaned and opened her eyes…to an empty room. Spinning around, her eyes darted about and called out to him with her silence. Her eyes alighted upon a slip of paper slid hastily into one of the spaces in the fence. Hesitantly, she reached for it, unrolling the parchment almost regretfully. It read:

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"Follow your heart and your mind will follow…Or you could just follow the cards."

Peering beyond the door to the pen, she saw a trail of playing cards leading off into the darkness. She folded up the paper, slipped it into the pocket of her sweatshirt, and cautiously followed the cards. They were all clubs, placed in ascending order, leading to—

Suddenly, they stopped. She had come upon one of the concrete walls. At the base was the last of the cards: the Queen of Clubs. Picking it up, she studied it carefully; there was nothing remarkable about the face, but when she flipped it over to the back— "Oh, my God. What the hell?" There was writing in Michael's uneven, bold scrawl. She had to move under the nearest overhead lamp in order to decipher the marked card. Passing her thumb over the slick surface to remove a clump of dirt she read:

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'Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

I love the stars

And you do, too.

'So when all is dark

And all is clear,

Look to the sky

And they will appear.'

The lights were extinguished, and she was plunged into darkness. That's not entirely true; and eerie green glow drew her attention upwards, and she let the card slip from her hand in astonishment. Hundreds if not thousands of glow-in-the-dark astrological bodies hung from the ceiling, suspended by threads that were invisible in the darkness. In the centre of all the craziness spelled out in stars were the letters "MV + SB." Any shred of doubt that she had previously that this was not Vaughn's doing flew out the window. Her heart began to beat rapidly, threatening to break her ribs and burst out of her chest like in the cartoons, fueled by her intense love for this man.

A soft, subtle, barely noticeable scraping reached her ears from somewhere to her right. Suddenly she felt something bump into her right foot. Stooping to scoop it up, she realized it was a flashlight. Grinning like an idiot, she switched it on to reveal a third note taped to the head of the light. It simply read, _"Á droit, un peu."_ As instructed, Sydney slid the beam to her right and found a second trail of playing cards; this time the suit was spades. They lead her to a door with an arrow pointing towards the ceiling (the last card was, again, the Queen of Spades), but when she tried the handle, it was locked. She thought of crying out to Michael to end his little game, but a light bulb went off in her head. Picking up the Queen of Spades, she flipped it over and placed it under the shaft of illumination. In the same, scrawling hand was written:

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'It's not fair

That I can't see you every day

Can't see what you see

Can't hear what you say

'Maybe by the light

Of these tall waxen fingers

My image will remain

Where I hope someday to linger.'

There was a click of the lock, and she attempted the door handle again, this time successfully garnering entrance. At first, the soft light blinded her, rendering her feet motionless. But when her eyes adjusted a startling sight met her eyes. The room was large (some sort of forgotten storeroom, maybe an old freezer) and a sweeping, moving light rolled over the floor like a calm sea. Hundreds of lit candles varying in size blanketed the floor in one large mass of heat and light. Through the sea a path was cut, a long curving line of black, urging her onwards.

The smoke stung at her eyes, but that wasn't why they were tearing. This entire ordeal was completely surreal. Sydney had no idea how sensitive, how romantic, how…sappy…Vaughn could be. It tugged at her heart and tied sailor's knots in her stomach. They had been lucky to make it alive, sane, and together this far, a huge accomplishment over such a length of time as far as CIA relationships go. And that he was commemorating them in such an open way…She was falling more deeply in love with him every second.

Sydney followed the path, squinting and rubbing her eyes every so often 'til she reached another door. On the handle was another note: _"Recludere et continuare, proprius amantis."_ She had to take some time to cross-reference this in every language she knew; this was certainly not basic French, Spanish, German, or Italian. Reaching the end of her rope, she conjured up what little knowledge of Latin she had. Putting two and two together, she realized it had instructed her to open the door and continue. Blushing fiercely, she turned the handle and exited the "Candle Room."

The lights were still resting when she emerged, and again she used the flashlight to guide her. Within seconds, she came upon a third trail of playing cards, diamonds this time. A faint fluttering butterfly settled in her heart as if an omen of what was to come. Her steps were shaky, unsure of what was written on the back of the next Queen, and unsure that she really wanted to find out. She came upon the last card (as predicted, the Queen of Diamonds), and she plucked it from the concrete floor with rapidly convulsing hands. It was a few moments before she could hold the card steady enough to read the back:

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'The rock that is hardest,

Can cut anything,

Melts the most souls

And makes the heart sing

'I know what you're thinking

And maybe it's that

But calm down!

It's only one karat.'

"Oh…My…God…"

Again, the card slipped from her fingers and her eyes darted around the room like a bumblebee, trying to find…something. Nothing. But her heart refused to resume its rhythm again; there was something else, _someone_ else, just around a crate or shelving unit. The beam slipped and slid over every object in its reach until — A shrewd whistle from her right attracted her attention. Under the illumination of the shaky shaft of light, Vaughn's sly face appeared from around a corner. But as soon as her face lit up and she clambered to follow him he disappeared, melting back into the shadows from whence he came. She rounded the corner, expecting to leap directly into her love's waiting arms. Instead, Sydney received a rude smack in the face from something hanging from the ceiling. After rubbing her forehead, slightly confused, she realized what the object was, and her stomach dropped into her shoes.

A ring. It was a ring.

One karat, just like the poem had said.

It was a simple gold band with a simple diamond. The band was encircling another card. First she untied the entire concoction from the rope suspending it from the ceiling; she then slipped the playing card from the ring. It was the King of Diamonds with (she had to gulp back a sob; this was just too much) a black ring drawn on its left-hand ring finger. Her imagination must have been in overdrive, because the King had the strangest look on its face. It was almost as if he was saying, "I've got this goofy ring on my finger, why don't you?" On the back of the card, a giant heart was drawn, urging her to continue forward, but her feet didn't want to move just yet.

She turned the ring over and over under the light, not believing this was all actually real. Not noticing it before, she shown the light inside; there was an inscription: "10/1: True Love." She slid it and the card into her pocket (which was becoming quite full) before continuing. Sydney wanted Michael to be the one to slip it onto her finger.

A few feet in front of her were the beginnings of what she hoped to be the last line of cards: hearts. (She was tiring of the game, although she did enjoy the presents she was getting; it was like Christmas morning all over again.) At the end of the line was the Queen of Hearts and she laughed. Just last week she had told Vaughn that when she had first seen "Alice in Wonderland," she couldn't sleep for a week: she kept having nightmares about the trial scene and the Queen of Hearts chasing after her in the hedge maze. Vaughn had crossed out the royal's stoic face with a large black "X". As soon as she picked up the card to read the back she winced prematurely, expecting a dress and a pair of shoes to come shooting at her on the back of a paper airplane. But nothing came hurling towards her head; no blinding light shown into her eyes. It was almost unnerving. Kneeling on the cool concrete, she slid the beam of light over the card for the last time and read:

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'Now we're at the end

Yet back at the beginning.

Is your mind defogged?

Or is it still spinning?

'Roses are red,

Orchids are white,

You better call Francie

'Cause you're spending the night.'

Sydney's eyes blinked rapidly, discerning (or rather, trying to) if what she read was an illusion or not. But each time her eyelids rose and she rubbed her thumb across the black letters…they didn't disappear. _They stayed._ She could only breathe in short, shallow gasps of breath, opening and closing her mouth like a fish out of water. Her usual companions of alertness and reactivity had left without a note as to when they'd be back. All she could feel was…nothing: her limbs and brain were numbed and dumb-founded, at a loss for words. She was about to faint dead away by asphyxiation when she heard a throat clear somewhere at the head of a corridor to her right. The beam of light illuminated the grinning façade of Agent Michael Vaughn yet again, but this time, he did not run away. Instead, he advanced towards her with outstretched arms. (He increased his pace slightly when he noticed her lack of colour and the way she slightly swayed on her knees.) Syd fell into his arms, leaning most of her weight on him for support.

Michael laughed shortly. "Wow. I didn't know my writing was good enough to literally take someone's breath away." Syd gave him a Look as he slipped the card out of her hand and his cell phone into it. "Well, are you going to call? Or just sit here like a fool?"

The power of speech came rushing back all at once. "I'll take the fool any day." Her fingers wrapped tightly around both the phone and Michael's neck, pulling his lips tantalizingly closer inch by inch, until finally making the contact that both of them craved.

But he pulled away prematurely. "Wait a second. Are you saying I'm a fool?"

"Shut up…Fool."

He grabbed her sides and she shrieked in genuine laughter, fighting half-heartedly to escape her not-too-shabby prison. Suddenly, a hand clamped over her mouth, immediately extinguishing the fire of happiness that had bubbled up inside of her stomach. Vaughn leaned closer so that his pink lips were millimeters from the soft cartilage of her ear. "I may be a fool, but I'm still a fool that's totally and helplessly in love with you. I'm your fool."

In her mind Sydney started singing the Elvis song that made loving fools famous.

Her eyes looked at him unseeingly as her mind still focused on recalling the long-unused lyrics. It took a few moments to dawn on her that she was slightly swaying, mouthing the words with a smile on her face. Vaughn was indiscreetly sniggering behind his hand, ready to duck at any moment in case an open (or closed) fist swung at his mocking face. In fact, it did, it _was_ open, and it wasn't as hard as he expected it to be. Amidst incredulous over the sheer pointlessness of it all, he captured her hands in one of his and led her through yet another corridor.

Their voices echoed back at them: the tall, imposingly solid walls seemed to go upwards to infinity, narrow at the base and even more so at the top. So when it abruptly ended and opened up into another large, windowless, gated room, Sydney was more than surprised. The stars and moons still glowed on the ceiling, shedding light on a scene directly out of her childhood.

In the very centre of the room stood a small travel grill, lid closed yet still giving off the distinct smell of charred steaks and lighter fluid, surrounded by rocks like a real campfire. Set back a few paces was a vinyl tent; it was just big enough for two people and their sleeping bags (of which she could see only one peeking out of the doorway) to fit inside without overlapping terribly. In its shadow, two suitcases perched against the wall, leaning at an "I'm so cool" angle. A wicker picnic basket, wine bottle, and two long-stemmed goblets stood like guards in front of the tent, protecting its depths like tiny toy soldiers.

Vaughn left her side to cross to the grill. Turning around and gesturing at the room with open arms he asked, "Well, what do you think? Does it get Sydney Bristow's patented seal of approval?" He cocked his head and raised his eyebrows, the over-confident smile he'd been suppressing surfacing anyway.

Sydney closed her eyes and sighed heavily. Words weren't enough to express what she felt: they stopped up her throat like a group of ten-year-olds playing Clog the Toilet. "Yeah," She heard herself whisper, having a moment of disembodiment. "With flying colours." As soon as the words left her mouth, she knew they didn't make sense. She shook her head and averted her eyes in embarrassment. "Oops. I mean…it's perfect, Michael. Absolute perfection."

Tired of her perpetual state of stupefaction, Vaughn grabbed her by the hands again and began pulling her towards the campfire. "You know, this _entire_ night doesn't have to be serious. I mean, there has _got_ to be something comical about trails of cards, billions of candles, an entire glow-in-the-dark universe, my poems, and a travel grill I borrowed from a neighbour." This prompted a smile to crack upon her lips. He extracted two floor pillows for them to lounge upon and quickly lit the small fire, keeping one of her hands in the palm of his the entire time.

"You really did that?"

He stopped trying to warm her hands over the fire. "Did what?"

"Put up the stars, lit the candles, wrote the poems?"

"Whoa, whoa. One at a time."

Sydney reclaimed one of her appendages and slid it into the pocket of her sweatshirt. Fingering one of the cards she had saved she asked again, "The poems: did you actually write them? Or is there some copyright infringement that I should be aware of?"

Vaughn's chest almost visibly puffed with pomp and pride as he remembered his handiwork. "All me. It took me an entire sleepless night sitting up with a giant thesaurus and rhyming dictionary to get them perfect. I think that was when you were in Santo Domingo."

She pulled out one of the cards to study. "Are you serious? That is kind of—" She coughed "—pathetic. You couldn't think of something better to do? Like, say, sleep?"

He frowned playfully. "I couldn't. You were on a mission; I was worried about you," He stated matter-of-factly, toying with the corner of the Queen of Spades he stole from her. "I figured that I had better do something more productive than give Donovan another walk to Dunkin' Donuts. They know both of us by name by now."

Blushing, Syd dug deeper into her pocket, not quite sure how to respond to such a simple yet touching compliment. Giving up her search for the perfectly worded thank-you, she turned her gaze towards the sky. "What's up with the galaxy? Did you just happen to have a trillion of those things sitting at the bottom of your closet?"

Vaughn did not get hung up on the lack of enthusiasm over his inadvertent reference to the life and times of the spying business; her gratitude was understood. "Actually, Wal-Mart had a special: buy five hundred, get one free. Just kidding." The playful twinkle in his eyes was so bright it was practically blinding her. "I was grocery shopping when I came across a package of stars in the cereal aisle. They made me think of you. Remember that night in Edinburgh? It was the first time we actually got to stay in the same room together—"

"Yeah, and we didn't even get to the room!" She interjected, remembering the mission with a fondness. "We roamed in the flower gardens of the inn 'til two in the morning and collapsed on the ground by that weeping willow. God, was that tree huge!"

"You said that your favourite constellation was the Gemini Twins because you are the only one you know that can find them without help," Michael finished, demanding her gaze with his tone. She laughed silently as he rubbed his thumb over the knobs of her knuckles, causing her to shiver slightly and cease her laughter prematurely. "Sorry I couldn't actually recreate the twins, but I still don't know what they look like: you fell asleep before you could point them out to me." Syd grew redder and his smile widened, if that were possible.

"How long did it take you to do?"

His gaze floated upwards, admiring his hard work. "An entire weekend and eleven trips to the hardware store for supplies. You were in Nairobi those days," He added as an afterthought.

Sydney thought that she was going to have a complete body system shutdown if he even looked at her again. Her mind was overloading with the massive amount of information her senses were bringing in: the smell of his cologne and charcoal burning; the feel of his presence so near to her body; the sight of the only smile she knew that could completely reach the eyes; the sound of his soft, sultry voice; the realization of the lengths he went to impress her. Despite her immense incompetence she managed to croak, "The candles?"

"Oh, those. I bought out an entire Bath and Body Works store. At first everyone was giving me weird looks; I think that might have been because I was wearing my black leather trench coat at the time. But I digress. They're all yours; I have no use for them. No idea how you're gonna get them home, though. It's probably a really large fire hazard to have that many candles in the same room, let alone lit. I better go see to that—"

"Don't," She whispered. "Leave them alone. They're beautiful. I love them. I love you." If the dimples in her face got any deeper, they would've been able to rival the Grand Canyon as the deepest point in the U.S. "How much did all of this cost?"

Michael laughed, rolling his eyes. "Enough," He replied and wouldn't say another word on the subject. The pair sat in silence as Vaughn poured them each a glass from the tall green bottle, successfully popping the cork without spilling half of its contents into his lap. But when Sydney went to take a sip, she almost spit the liquid back out into her goblet. Michael laughed loudly, the vibrations echoing around the stars and planets.

"What the hell was that?"

"Fooled you, didn't I?" He retorted smugly, taking a long drink from his own glass and smacking his lips. "Grape juice, my dear. Sparkling grape juice for your enjoyment. I didn't want this evening to be marred on account of either of us being too drunk to remember anything." Her melodious giggling rekindled his laughter, and they soon simmered into the comfortable silence they both loved. This silence was different then the kind on the other side of a comm. link. These were loaded, alright, but they were loaded with love, pleasure, and content rather than tension the likes of having a gun pressed to your temple. Vaughn enjoyed these silent moments; during their relationship, he had learned to assess her gaps in speech and taught himself what they meant. Sometimes she was angry, sometimes disappointed or sad. But more times than not, Sydney was just genuinely happy. And he loved making her that way.

Noticing her left hand had darted back into the protective area of her pocket he asked, "What do you have there?"

She brought her gaze up from the depths of her drink. "Vaughn, we need to talk—"

"Is this about the ring?"

"I don't know what to make of it. To be honest, I don't even know what to say—"

"What _is_ there to say?"

She had no retort; instead, she brought the small band into view, turning and inspecting it. Somehow it looked different in the light of the fire, almost alive. Like in "Alice in Wonderland," it seemed to have an invisible sign attached to it that said, "wear me". But Syd just couldn't bring herself to slip it onto her finger herself.

"I haven't asked the question—"

Syd blushed and almost doubled over in embarrassment. How could she have been so presumptuous? Even the card said that it _could_ be what she was thinking. Nothing was definite.

Sensing her unease, Michael reclaimed the object, being careful not to touch her hand at all. He slid off his pillow and clambered awkwardly towards her, closing the gap between their two bodies swiftly. "—Yet."

Her eyes lit up as he took both of her hands in his and her gaze with his eyes. The ring was still curled in the protection of his palm, searing his skin with the very thought of it.

"I didn't know how to do this at first. I mean, I couldn't exactly hire a skywriter: it would just be too dangerous. And I couldn't put it in our food: we haven't the best track record with actually eating the food in front of us when presented with another choice of activities.

"I know this isn't the fairy tale way you wanted this to happen, but it's the best that I could manage."

_'It's perfect,'_ Syd wanted to interject, but her mouth hung useless. _'Besides, it's not the _way_ it happens, it's the _person_ who does it. I wouldn't be here with anyone else but you.'_

"When my father's watch stopped that day long ago, I knew we'd eventually end up like this. But even then, I don't think I realized the magnitude of what could happen. It's been a long, arduous, exhilarating roller coaster ride that's had its share of twists and turns, but also its peaks. And I'm not ready to get off yet. Sydney Bristow, would you do me the honour of being my wife?"

She'd been mentally preparing herself for this moment since she picked up the Queen of Diamonds and read the amateur poem scrawled on the back. But all the preparation and meditation left her the moment he had started talking. His words were ringing in her ear, getting louder each time they repeated themselves in her brain, demanding an answer in the gentlest way. Her voice box seemed to be locked and she must have swallowed the key. She found herself whispering:

"I don't know what to say."

"Well, how 'bout yes," Michael replied, allowing himself a small half-smile.

Sydney shook her head at her own stupidity. Without a second thought she stated clear as a bell, "Yes, I will. I would love to be your wife, Michael Vaughn." He gleefully captured her in a lasting embrace. Disregarding both the meal and the fire, they fumbled their way into the tent, where the air mattress and lone sleeping bag were used to their full potential. Never was there more love and positive energy in the warehouse than on that night.

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Author's Note: Hope you enjoyed it! I won't tell you anything about the next chapter except what I stated in my note at the beginning. Please leave reviews! I just **_KNOW_** that little purple button is calling your name! 

: ) Becky, the Dream Writer 4 Life


	2. Chapter Two

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Everything's the same…Well, except MAJOR TISSUE WARNING!

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Addition to Spoilers/Timeline: Similarities to canon from Season 3 are not intended.

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This Chapter: Well, you get to know why the title of the fic is "The Wall"…

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Suggested Soundtrack: Go for angsty, sad instrumental music for this one; no vocals if you can help it. Which is why I'm suggesting the entire "Lord of the Rings: the Return of the King" soundtrack, especially "The Steward of Gondor" featuring Billy Boyd, "The Return of the King" featuring Viggo Mortensen and Renée Fleming, "The Grey Havens", and "Into the West" by Annie Lennox. I know I said no vocals, but these are exceptionally well done and fit perfectly.

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Author's Note: In all honesty, this was the direction I was going in from the start, which was why I was more than a little put-off by the fact that J.J. had already gone and done what I wanted to write about. Oh well. It's still different. I rarely cry when I write sad angst, but I was tearing a little while I wrote this. I was listening to the above music while writing, so that might have something to do with it. Anyways, enjoy!

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Chapter Two

His shoes scuff the cement as he kicks a rock down the sidewalk. Stuffed inside the pocket of his trench coat, his left thumb subconsciously twirls a ring around his finger. The colour of the coat allows him to meld into the darkness around him; the lights around this area have been absent for a long while. He exhales and walks into his own breathy cloud of moisture, warming his skin momentarily before it evaporates like alcohol, leaving him cold again. For L.A. in winter, the air had more of a chill than in seasons past. But then again, he liked the cold, enjoyed it even; the thermostat at his apartment was constantly set at an even forty-seven degrees: just the right temperature to chill him to the bone yet somehow keep him from death. Lifeless leaves swirl around his feet as a gust of wind kicks up, forcing him to tighten his collar against it. He has enough coldness in his soul and in his heart: he does not need it down his shirt as well. Only two more blocks to go…

He begins to think of _why_ he is going there, _why_ he could not celebrate the hollow victory at home with his expanding liquor cabinet. Then a voice answers in his head as small and as annoyingly right as logic can be: it is _her_ victory as well. She would have wanted to know about it. He realizes this as truth and continues down the walk, trying to ignore his longing for a shot of vodka. One more block to go…

This one flies by as he closes his eyes and subconsciously quickens his pace. He remembers the harsh slap of his dress shows on the pavement, the crackling that had not ceased to be with him since, the insufferable, choking heat…

He releases his hold on his collar, welcoming the frigid breeze.

And then he is there.

Memories flood and threaten to drown him, ranging from the soaringly happy to the indescribably sad. They overwhelm him to the point of cutting off his air supply: he can now only breathe in short, shallow gasps that never allow him to receive all the oxygen he needs. He has felt this way since…but only recently began to have these panic attacks.

He stops in front of the charred remains, still not quite able to fathom the enormity and desolation of the site. Even the sidewalk and pavement along the perimeter remains blackened, unchanged by cleansing or rain, an ever-present reminder of what happened here. Metal beams, twisted in ways they should not be, are strewn about among the bits of rubble, cement chunks of notable size tossed in for texture. A swatch of chain-link fence here or there remind him of things he does not want to remember — times and _activities_ that evoke the same emotions now as they did then. Any wood that was present had seared, converted to ash, and carried away by the wind in a thick black cloud of smoke. He can still see, still smell, still _feel_ it pressing in around him like the sides of a trash compactor.

No glass lay about.

There never was any windows in the place, he remembers passively.

In the far corner of the plot, a stretch of brick wall looms like the lone soldier after a bloody massacre. It had somehow miraculously survived, and he makes a beeline towards it, knowing exactly how and where to step in order to ensure his safety; he had been here many times since…

Little light pervades the perpetual darkness surrounding the area, but knowing this he came well prepared. He extracts an old flashlight from a pocket and presses the button. The beam illuminates thousands of markings etched into the brick; some are random words and others are coherent sentences. His fingers roam the chaotic array as the light glides about, both searching for something. When he finds it, he sighs and sits down beside the neatly carved stanzas. Holding the light by its head, he searched his pockets for another item: a book. The old leather cover is cracked and faded despite its limited life: it has seen the light of day for barely over a year. Leaning against the wall and stretching his legs out in front of him, he begins to search for the first of two bookmarks. Upon finding it, he places the mark on a flat rock beside him, smoothes the page wrinkled by tears, and reads:

__

'I should not dare to leave my friend,

Because — because if he should die

While I was gone, and I — too late—

Should reach the heart that wanted me;

'If I should disappoint the eyes

That hunted, hunted so, to see,

And could not bear to shut until

They "noticed" me — they noticed me;

'If I should stab the patient faith

So sure I'd come — so sure I'd come,

It listening, listening, went to sleep

Telling my tardy name, —

'My heart would wish it broke before,

Since breaking then, since breaking then,

Were useless as next morning's sun,

Where midnight frosts had lain!'

The tears spring to his eyes and spill over before he can stop them.

He had not meant to be late that day; he really hadn't. Kendall had called him in for an extra meeting concerning Derevko, kept him after, and would not let him leave until he signed about five hundred papers. Then as he was leaving, Weiss decided to give him the third degree; he enjoyed being a persistent ass when it made him late for a meeting with _her_. He had wanted to race to the warehouse on the back of a Pegasus, but had to make due with his compact car. The traffic was especially heavy that night, and every red light seemed determined to bar his way. He remembered—he remembered nervously tapping his fingers on the cold steering wheel and repeatedly glancing over to the passenger's seat. According to his recollection ten roses, ten sprigs of baby's breath, and one deck of playing cards sat beside him.

They were celebrating their two month, two week, and two day anniversary.

At least, they had been going to.

But they never got that chance.

As he approached the warehouse, he could tell something was terribly wrong. Even with the windows closed, he could smell the smoke. Not bothering to circle the block three times and park half a mile away, he pulled right up next to the building and instantly forgot all of their carefully laid plans.

Smoke streamed through every crack in that building from foundation to roof. It lingered and hung about like a second, lower sky. The stench of ash permeated everything.

He was not worried at first. Running back to his car, he extracted his cell phone, thinking to call her before she tried coming to meet him and _then_ phoning the fire department. But when he turned around, everything changed.

There was her car: that big, ugly red thing that probably used more gas in a week than his car did in a year.

He had nearly dropped the phone.

She was already inside.

Blood pounding in his ears, he dialed 9-1-1 and sped through his predicament; he never could remember exactly what he had said to that poor dispatcher, but he was certain she was sworn at more than once.

Then the phone did drop to the ground, probably shattering; he never cared enough to retrieve it, so he did not know for sure. He raced to the back door, _their_ door, tried the handle, and recoiled in pain: it seared his fingers. Desperate, he tore off the sleeve of his dress shirt, wrapped it around his hand, and tried again. This time it gave way. Swinging outwards, it released a billow of black smoke that had almost choked him right there. Using the same torn cloth, he wrapped the fabric about his head so that it covered his nose and mouth and dove into the sea of black.

Immediately, the temperature skyrocketed. The concrete shimmered with a heated haze. Flames engulfed most of the space, licking the walls like a child eats a popsicle. The crackling and groaning of the metal expanding, melting, and crumpling was almost deafening. He was instantly grateful they habitually kept that entrance free of junk; otherwise, he would have been dead as soon as he opened the door. He began stumbling towards the far corner where the flames were lowest.

It was then that he heard it: the repeated crashes of crates against cement and banging of metal against metal. Sounds only a human — a _live_ human — could make. Listening more intently, he heard them again; it had not been wishful thinking.

She was alive.

He scrambled towards the sounds, avoiding flaming crates and molten sections of fence. Tearing off his other sleeve, he wrapped it around his hand again in order to clear his path more easily. Out of the dancing orange mass, a pole emerged and began savagely beating at a section of fence only yards away.

Hopes rising he called out, "Sydney!" The cloth muffled his voice, so he cast it aside, no longer worried for himself, and tried again.

In a particularly low section of flames her face appeared, wavering and unstable from the heat. "Vaughn!" She cried out, throwing herself towards him, but only reaching the searing chain-link fence instead. She jumped back and clutched at her forearms, successfully battling away the grimace of pain for his sake. Doing her best to suppress the agony that overwhelmed both her body and spirit, she returned to the fence. "It's Sloane! He did this! He came in here, and I thought it was you, and he locked me in this—this cage! Then he poured kerosene everywhere and lit a match. He knows; he knows about us, about the CIA, about everything! He said—he said this was my retribution, my comeuppance.

"I tried to break the lock, but it's some kind of carbon-based ore and won't melt in this low heat. I'm trapped and—" She did not get to finish her sentence, as the beams above creaked and groaned. Finally one fell, landing with a shower of sparks in between the two and sending him reeling backwards. She barely batted an eye.

Then he noticed her physical appearance. He could tell her shirt had been white at one time, but the smoke that still hung around them had blackened it. Her sleeves, just like his, had been discarded, and the rest of what he could see hung in limp tatters. The skin on her forearms shined red, and black lines marked the places where they had connected with the fence. Her face was smeared with ashes and dried blood: her lip and temple were bleeding profusely. The long, brown hair he loved was singed shorter than he had ever seen it: most of her high ponytail had been burned off. Yet her eyebrows were set and her shoulders were squared; she was not giving up without a fight.

He grabbed himself a pole, ripping off another section of shirt for his right hand. "Hang on, Syd: I'm going to get you out of there."

Her eyes widened in horror. "No! Don't! Get out of here now!"

His stance did not change. "Not without you."

"Vaughn, listen to me. There are propane tanks in here and you know it. If the fire reaches them, we're all dead." Her voice hitched, but smoke had not been the only obstruction. "_I love you, Michael Vaughn._ More than anything on this Earth. I love you too much to let you die here with me. I am not afraid. _Get out now._"

He shook his head vigorously; maybe if he happened to shake it hard enough, all of it would go away.

She grunted in frustration. "Stop being so stubborn! You know I hate it when you condescend. Just please—please go. Get out of here. I love you more than anything, and I won't stand to see you die because of some foolish fantasy about being a hero. Go and live — live for me." Despite her burning hands and the flames that were growing ever taller, she muscled open a circle in the fence wide enough for her arm to slip through. She reached out over the fire's tendrils and grasped his hand one last time. She stared into his eyes without any trace of fear or doubt. "Live for us. Never stop believing in the impossible. Never stop fighting for the good in the world. Never surrender. Never stop being the man I love more than life itself." Retracting her hand, she took up her pole again, wincing at its temperature. "Now go! Leave! NOW!" She screamed at the top of her lungs.

Another beam creaked overhead, garnering both of their gazes. She jabbed threateningly towards the door with her pole, and he dropped his object and began backing away. Before he passed away from view he whispered, "I love you, too, Sydney Bristow. My love, my soul, my wife." The last time he saw her, she was beating against the fence again, still attempting an escape. And then the heat took hold of him, and the smoke began pressing down around him, cutting off his oxygen and infecting his lungs. He stumbled towards the exit as the beam fell from above, and he heard her piercing, agonized wails of pain. Not wanting to give himself time to think about going back, he followed her orders and fumbled out of the burning warehouse.

He was barely one hundred feet away when the first explosion rocked the building.

It set off a chain reaction of sorts, popping one after another like bubble wrap.

There were twenty in all.

And the twentieth was the one that blew out the side of the warehouse, partially collapsing the roof.

That was when the fire department arrived, five trucks at the peak, spraying their little hoses and making sure the fire could not spread to any other abandoned buildings. He had been sitting against the side of her car, hands blistering and bleeding onto the shards of his shirt, when the EMT bustled over. He asked if there had been anyone inside, while another hurried over with a first aid kit to bandage a wound on his head that he did not know he had.

His loaded stare pacified them with an answer, and they led him to the awaiting ambulance to be taken to the hospital.

After that, he cannot remember a thing; his theory is that he passed out. Others have said that he was conscious, but not really _there_. Sometimes he wonders how he survived the night, let alone the year that followed.

They had found her body charred and almost indistinguishable from the rest of the rubble. The only mode of identification they could use was her dental records…and the ring on her finger. Everyone at the CIA was surprised to hear about that.

No one had known they were married.

No one except Jack, who had pulled all the strings within reach to make sure no one knew they were married.

His only consolation was that the CIA allowed him to bury her under the name Sydney Vaughn.

It had been little consolation.

He smoothes the pages over again, working in the new tears cascading down onto them. His head leans back upon the only other survivor of the fire, and he sighs shakily. The news he has been carrying all day bubbles to the surface and he whispers:

"We did it, Syd. We got 'em. SD-6 and all the other cells are gone. The good guys won."

He wants to tell her everything, to tell her that her father informed Dixon of the truth about Sloane; that Jack recruited her former partner; that Dixon helped to take down the organization as well. That when he first walked into that sub-basement and saw Sloane, the first thing he did was stab him in the gut with the knife _she_ used to carry; then he wordlessly walked away.

That she was being hailed as a hero for the gargantuan role she played in taking them down.

That they did it for her.

That she was free from them

That she was free from all guilt she held for betraying her country as long as she did.

That he still loves her as much as ever.

But he really does not need to say it; he has a feeling she knows already.

Instead, he flips to the other mark in his book, takes out that same knife, and turns to the bricks. He had started to carve out a poem on his first trip to the burned down warehouse. Sometimes when he came, he could not bring himself to etch anything; sometimes only a word would transpose itself from book to wall.

But tonight he feels he can do an entire stanza: the last in the poem.

Slowly but surely he chips away at the bricks, carving into them the words that resonate in his mind, in his soul, and in his heart. He finishes and sits back to read it one last time.

__

'If I may have it when it's dead

I will contented be;

If just as soon as breath is out

It shall belong to me,

'Until they lock it in the grave,

'Tis bliss I cannot weigh,

For though they lock thee in the grave,

Myself can hold the key.

'Think of it, lover! I and there

Permitted face to face to be;

After a life a death we'll say, —

For death was that, and this is thee.'

Satisfied with his work, he closes the book and sets it and the knife and flashlight beside him as he leans back against the poem. He sighs once again, this time in contented relief, and closes his eyes to welcome sleep at last.

***

They find him the next morning.

Jack is summoned immediately, and he rushes to the site. A single ambulance is stalled beside the rubble of the once great building. He picks his way over to the four paramedics dressed in blue jumpsuits just as they cover him with a white sheet. Jack's eyes do the asking and the driver answers, "A homeless man found him and called us from a payphone. He had no pulse when we arrived, and we tried to resuscitate him, but he was unresponsive. His—his heart just stopped working." She shrugs her shoulders and walks away to help load him onto a stretcher.

But before she gets too far, she turns back around and inquires, "Is there any family we need to notify?"

He thinks for a moment before shaking his head. "His parents passed away long ago, and his wife died last year. I'm all the family he's got."

She nods solemnly and replies, "I'm sorry for your loss, sir."

Jacks shakes his head, slowly this time, as he watches the other three EMTs load his son-in-law into the ambulance. "Don't be. He's happier this way." Without waiting for a response, he climbs into the vehicle and sits next to the body with his head bent.

The paramedic shrugs, slides into the front seat, and drives them all away. The warehouse and the wall stand alone, solitary reminders of the memories and sadness that they have seen, and wish the world will never see again.

**__**

END


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